


The Sum of all the Nothings

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anticipation, Developing Relationship, M/M, POV Greg Lestrade, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29977467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: Nothing's happened yet, but all those nothings have given Greg a fairly good idea there's something between himself and Mycroft.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 16
Kudos: 126





	The Sum of all the Nothings

“You’re happy lately.”

Sally’s words were nosy – she was a detective, after all – but Greg didn’t rise to the bait.

“Yep,” he answered.

She rolled her eyes as she closed his door, but Greg didn’t care. He _was_ happy lately, and this wasn’t the kind of happy he was prepared to share. He collected his things, leaving on the dot of five for once, and as he made his way home through the busy streets, his mind considered exactly why he was so happy lately.

Nothing had happened, not yet. But that was what made it so delicious. The anticipation, a tinge of uncertainty, and the thrill of possibility every time they met. Would it be this time? What might be different, advance their cause ever so slightly?

So far, nothing. Well, not nothing, but a thousand tiny moments Greg wouldn’t normally pay any attention to, and when they added up, it was a whole lot of nothing that meant actually, he was quite happy lately.

Greg shook his head. He wasn’t making any sense, even to himself. How would he explain it to someone else, if they asked and he cared to share?

 _His name’s Mycroft._ Greg grinned. _We work together._

Kind of.

_Well, it started kind of that way, the two of us conferring to keep his brother out of trouble._

Out of the worst of the trouble, he should say. And when Greg considered those first meetings, carefully phrased words in public places, each of them excruciatingly polite and guarded, he could see how far they’d come.

And yet, nothing had happened.

Over time the meetings shifted. Less about Sherlock, more about their jobs, or his at least. Mycroft was careful enough not to give away anything specific about his employment, but they found their way to have discussions. Careful words again, but this time guilded with trust instead of wariness. Greg still remembered the first time he met Mycroft at his Club, and the first time Mycroft came to his flat. Both stressful, though for different reasons. Mycroft was gracious, as always, and both felt like landmark moments. When Greg realised Mycroft was letting him in a bit, it made it easier to be vulnerable himself and it paid off. Their respective reaction to seeing into the others’ life, as well as the demonstrable relief of knowing judgement was absent. Despite the disparity between their situations, enough respect lay in the foundation of their connection to render it moot.

Greg fished out his keys, letting himself into his flat, relieved they wouldn’t be meeting here tonight. It was a bit of a mess, and he wanted to make sure he had time to shave properly before changing. His mind drifted further along their timeline as he started to choose a shirt.

It was a long time since Greg made the effort to flirt, and even longer since he’d recognised when someone was interested in him, but his job did encourage an observant nature and for weeks he wondered. Mycroft was excellent at remembering things like his preferred drink and that he wasn’t a fan of mushrooms, but sometimes Greg wondered if there was more.

A glance that sat a little longer than usual.

Silence coalescing into something deeper.

The dessert Greg favoured appearing on the menu more often at Mycroft’s Club.

Small details that might have gone unnoticed, had he not begun to feel something flutter in his belly when Mycroft’s name appeared on his phone. Small things in his day reminded him of Mycroft, yet he pulled back from telling him each time for a reason he couldn’t quite name. The swirl of pleasure in his belly when he made Mycroft smile, a memory tucked away to warm him during an otherwise difficult day.

And there was the physical contact.

Greg knew he was careful not to allow their fingers to touch, even incidentally. Mycroft had always born an air of reserve, and though things relaxed between them, the habit of keeping his physical distance stuck, even after Greg was aware he was doing it on purpose for a slightly different reason. For all Greg knew, Mycroft valued their friendship, and no more. There was nothing in their conversation that implied Mycroft desired intimate relationships with anyone, and Greg didn’t want to push.

So the glances lengthened, and the silences grew heavier as they sat together, content in their space. Greg was careful not to stare, but Mycroft’s mouth sometimes turned up into something soft and (if he wasn’t looking to explain it away) affectionate. And so he wondered, until a few weeks ago.

That was when the touching started.

Greg snorted, the razor hovering over his half-shaved face at the phrasing. Well if that didn’t sound dirtier than he meant it to. The first time was electric, Mycroft handing Greg his drink instead of placing it on the coaster between them. The glass hovered in the air between them, Mycroft’s offer fragile as the expression in his eyes. Greg met the slate grey, a slow smile mostly tucked away before he accepted, making sure the weight of it was secure before withdrawing.

Mycroft’s fingertips slid along the length of his finger. It was hardly a caress, the kind of casual brush friends wouldn’t even notice, but a lick of fire juxtaposed the ice-cooled glass on Greg’s skin. Neither spoke for several seconds until their conversation picked up.

But Greg remembered.

After that, they continued, a slow descent, tiny steps of nothing that nevertheless carried them towards something. Now, Mycroft’s hand sometimes rested on Greg’s lower back as they moved from the wingback chairs to the dining table. Greg was bold enough to hold Mycroft’s hand an extra beat when they shook on greeting, their eyes smiling into each other, closer than they ever otherwise stood. The moment allowed Greg to study the shades of skin and eyes and hair that fascinated him, and he could feel Mycroft doing the same. The knowledge fuelled his certainty that Mycroft felt it too, and their slow pace was a mutual decision. Drinks were always passed directly now, and both lingered in these unacknowledged moments.

It didn’t happen every time, but Greg’s favourite was when Mycroft helped him on with his coat. Turned away from each other in a private space, courage rose as Mycroft’s hands lingered, smoothing the fabric over Greg’s shoulders. More confident now that it had been accepted, Greg found himself wishing for inclement weather, knowing they both allowed the moment to draw out far longer than any platonic friendship. Their façade was thinnest here, vulnerability barely covering the longing Greg recognised in Mycroft as mirroring his own. And yet they both smiled a farewell each time, forcing the anticipation to stretch tighter. Greg could feel it coming; the bigger picture a constant throb in the background of their meetings.

Since Mycroft had been out of the country for over a week, Greg hadn’t seen or spoken to him. There had been a couple of quick text messages, more an, ‘I’m still alive’ than any kind of real interaction. It wasn’t enough to ease the restlessness in his bones, and when his phone pinged that afternoon, tentatively offering an evening with Mycroft, the relief broke with a gasp. He answered immediately, rolling out his shoulders. Tension had tightened them, and though he’d covered his irritability well enough this week, it was still nice to relax properly. Thoughts of Mycroft flooded the rest of the afternoon, and he was sure the secret smile tugging at his lips was what had prompted Sally to comment on his demeanour.

And now here he was, ready for what felt like the most important date of his life. Showered and shaved, with the same aftershave Mycroft complimented him on that time. His general good mood had given him the energy to run regularly again, and he felt better in his skin than in a long time. New jeans with a smaller waist and a shirt that had sat in the back of his wardrobe for quite a while, and he was ready. The gap between meetings with Mycroft had been longer in the past, but he couldn’t remember the last time it had been so long. As he sat on the sofa, waiting for the car Mycroft would send for him, Greg scanned back through the calendar on his phone. They’d met about twice a week for months now. No wonder he was feeling antsy after such an absence.

It was a short hop from there to wondering if Mycroft felt it as keenly. This was the moment of doubt Greg hated. Where he was overanalysing things, questioning even the clearest signs that he and Mycroft were on the same page. The car was due in a few minutes, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d be standing in front of Mycroft, able to tell for himself if Mycroft missed him.

Wincing at the high school drama playing out in his head, Greg stood, shrugging on his coat before locking his flat door and making his way downstairs to the car. It was the same as always, yet the edge to his restless movements made the drive feel different. Not until he stepped out did Greg realise why.

“If you’ll follow me, sir,” the driver murmured. Nothing in his tone implied it was a request, so Greg followed him, struck speechless first by the surprise of where they were, then by the implication. A private residence with this level of security – he was _fingerprinted_ , for Christ’s sake – could only mean one thing. He was at Mycroft’s place, and that in turn could mean…

Lots of things, he chided himself, pulling back from locking his mind on the only possibility that made his heart race. Despite his efforts, Greg’s heart was still beating fast and hard when he stepped out of the lift and into a small hallway. Only one door lead off this small ante-room, so it must be another level of security.

Hesitantly, he knocked.

Two long, slow breaths later, the door opened, Mycroft’s eyes already apprehensive as they settled on Greg.

“Good evening,” Mycroft said, stepping back to allow Greg inside.

“Hi,” Greg replied.

The flat was as nice as the rest of the building implied; understated but clearly expensive, and he itched to look around. Being invited to Mycroft’s personal rooms at his Club had seemed intimate, and yet something about Mycroft’s demenour and even the air in this space told Greg he was one of few permitted to share in this very private part of Mycroft.

Greg realised he’d taken two steps in without Mycroft. He turned back to find Mycroft standing, back to the door, looking at him.

Greg blinked, taking in details.

Some kind of soft jumper, the rounded neck cradling a crisp white collar. Neutral trousers, definitely not jeans, but far more casual than Greg was used to seeing on him.

His hair curled as though freshly washed; it had been combed, but not styled as Greg was used to. He wondered if Mycroft had done it deliberately.

Mycroft’s hands were behind him, pressed against the wood of the door, perhaps. He met Greg’s eyes when they stopped roaming over him, and the expression made Greg’s mind stutter.

Much as he’d tried to stop it, his brain had been racing since he arrived, wondering why they would be meeting here, oscillating between ‘there must be some need’, and ‘Mycroft wanted us to meet here’. Both options had pros and cons, both made his breath catch for different reasons. Neither managed to explain how much he could read off Mycroft right now.

The flashes of emotion he’d seen – the private things people never spoke of, that Mycroft was so excellent at hiding – they were on display, their edged tinged with fear and apprehension, as though the very act of letting them through was pushing Mycroft’s boundaries. Greg knew with a rush of certainty how much Mycroft was risking, exposing himself like this.

The accidental double entendre sent a rush of amusement, wild and reckless, through Greg. Somehow it helped calm the sharp nerves he felt as he tried to name what he could see in Mycroft’s eyes.

Desire.

Hope, and hopelessness, see-sawing back and forth.

Affection.

Despair.

All the things he’d felt and kept a lid on, though perhaps with less control than Mycroft. Was that why Mycroft was doing this? Had he seen himself mirrored in Greg’s inexpertly disguised emotions? Was his enjoyment of the anticipation at its peak, driving him to force this showdown so the tension would be resolved, one way or another?

Whatever the reason, this was the moment. Greg felt it swirl together as he held Mycroft’s eyes, unbuttoning his coat and turning around, hoping Mycroft would understand. The tiled floor here was the same colour as Mycroft’s eyes sometimes, Greg noticed as he waited. He’d count to five, and if nothing happened, well…

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

_Fo-oh._

Mycroft had approached so quietly Greg jumped at his touch, hands landing on his shoulders as they had before. A beat passed before he eased fingers around Greg’s collar, knuckles brushing hot skin before he took the weight of the fabric, allowing it to slide down Greg’s arms before it disappeared. Greg didn’t dare move, and his patience – or stasis – was rewarded when Mycroft returned, tugging to undo the wrap of his scarf.

This time, Greg turned around, watching as Mycroft turned back from the coat hook to face him.

Close.

Close as a handshake, though neither extended their hand this time.

They were both so serious, the air around them pulling inwards, so tight and heavy Greg could almost taste it. It was the culmination of all those almost-moments, the opportunities denied until breathing against the weight of expectation was close to impossible.

And now they were here.

Drinking in Mycroft was enthralling and fulfilling all on its own, but Greg found his desire for more suddenly stoked from the usual smouldering embers into flickering flames. With a half-smile, he offered his hand as though to shake, and Mycroft did the same.

Instead of grasping Mycroft’s right hand in his own, Greg instead turned it, knuckles facing upward as his thumb brushed over skin, tracing the peaks and troughs of the bones underneath. The effect was immediate and complete. Grey eyes widened, breath caught through parted lips, and Mycroft’s body stilled as though frozen.

Greg took care not to rush. While his intentions were unlikely to be confusing, this part could be a heightened version of the anticipation that had carried them here, and he wanted to savour every second. He swiped his thumb back and forth, slow enough to feel the gentle flex as Mycroft fought not to tighten his fingers too much. Only when Mycroft swallowed did Greg shift, running his thumb up the back of Mycroft’s hand, edging under his cuff before turning their hands over. His fingers curled a little, but Greg was still able to swipe his thumb over Mycroft’s wrist. The turn of Mycroft’s cuff ran along his thumbnail, not exactly rough but close enough to a caress Greg had to suppress a shiver.

He could feel the tendons running through Mycroft’s wrist and chased the shape of one over the gentle rise marking the fleshy base of Mycroft’s thumb until it settled in the centre of his palm. Gentle swirling pressure, his fingers cradling the back of Mycroft’s hand, and Greg couldn’t tell if Mycroft’s continued stillness was a coping mechanism or shock…or something else.

_Have I read this wrong?_

_Am I taking this too fast?_

The slightest easing of his hand and an apology on his tongue, Greg saw something flicker in Mycroft’s eyes. A rush reminded him that his intense concentration on Mycroft was probably being reciprocated. And there was no way someone so observant would have missed his moment of doubt.

Sure enough, Mycroft’s fingers curled inwards, gently trapping Greg’s hand against his. No other part of him moved; as far as Greg could tell, he wasn’t even breathing. This was his response, and it was as subtle and hesitant as Greg expected, yet his heart soared for Mycroft’s courage. That slight tightening of tendons to pull in his fingers might have been the bravest thing he’d ever done, and Greg was there to see it. More than that; Greg was the sole intended recipient of that message.

_Stay._

The word pulsed through him, carried by his pounding heart to every cell in his body. Only one response seemed appropriate, and without a thought Greg pressed, a gentle pressure against Mycroft’s palm. Reassurance of a message understood, or maybe a promise. He couldn’t be sure it wasn’t both, but either way, the silence between them was broken.

Mycroft gasped. Or groaned, Greg wasn’t entirely sure of the right word, not that it mattered. The causality was clear, and Greg pressed again, adding a little swirl this time, drawing out the milliseconds. He was paying more attention this time, and though no sound was allowed through, Mycroft’s lip trembled, his jaw loosening to open his mouth a little wider.

Thrills curled outward from between Greg’s legs, the first powerful acknowledgement of how sexual his desire for Mycroft really was. This no-man’s-land of undeclared attraction combined with almost-deniable touching was intoxicating. He’d almost convinced himself kissing Mycroft would be enough, denied the flashes of pale skin and long limbs that accompanied the final inevitable seconds before his private orgasms burst through him, but now that was past.

He wanted to touch, to taste and be tasted. The visceral response roared through him, the initial curls flaring out, caught by the flames of desire that had flickered into life earlier. That desire was juvenile in comparison; this was deeper, an adult desire for connection in the most intimate way he could imagine. Mycroft’s skin suddenly felt alive, as though every easing of cells sent forth a burst of desire neither could control.

Because if Mycroft saw the small flash of doubt, there was no way he would miss the staggering shift in Greg’s world.

Greg swayed closer, and he knew Mycroft did too; as though mirrors, both pairs of eyes dropped to temptingly open mouths before dragging back up to lock on each other, dilated pupils meeting dilated pupils.

Greg’s open mouth tugged outwards, a breathless smile easing his uncertainty as he saw such blatant arousal redefine Mycroft’s whole body. Eyes hooded, mouth half open, the tension was that of someone holding themselves back, and the Greg from long ago would have felt satisfaction curl in his belly at the reaction to his careful seduction.

Now it appeared he didn’t have to do anything at all except experience the very same tension as it made his shoulders ache with the effort.

An answering grin of sorts, and the lightness came with a gasp of release, and Greg almost stumbled as he found himself bracing against something no longer in existence. There was no need for tension, despite their lack of words. Matching arousal coursed through their bodies and like every significant moment so far, nobody had to say a thing. In fact, the decided lack of ‘something’ was exactly right for them.

Greg decided to take his time.

Eyes still holding Mycroft’s, he brought his left hand up, easing back the cuff of Mycroft’s jumper. It was as soft as he’d expected, folding it back so he could release the button holding Mycroft’s shirt cuff together. A single fold of cuff over jumper and more of Mycroft’s skin was on display that Greg could ever remember seeing. There had been that one night – practically morning, if one had cared to check the clock – where Mycroft removed his tie at Greg’s urging; the few square centimetres of throat he exposed felt more erotic than a strip club.

Greg allowed his fingertips to roam the skin, tracing nothing in particular. It was heady, being allowed to do this. Much as he wanted to taste, he knew how quickly things could spiral and as good as that could be, this needed to last. To be memorable not for clumsy groping against Mycroft’s front door, but slow exploration. Nothing else about this had been rushed, and changing up the status quo didn’t feel right.

He swallowed, Mycroft’s eyes tracing his throat. He seemed content to let Greg take the lead, offering his other hand when Greg reached for it. The intimacy was less in the undressing – undoing cuffs hardly seemed to warrant the term – and in how carefully they held each other’s eyes. Greg was fascinated; never had Mycroft been so easy to read. Astonishment was a constant and as his fingers explored the shape of Mycroft’s wrist he smiled, hoping to reassure Mycroft.

_We’ll get there. No need to hurry._

With a deep breath, Greg dared to edge his fingers under Mycroft’s sleeve, chasing the shape of his forearm as it arced towards his elbow. It felt indecent, and from Mycroft’s indrawn breath, Greg wasn’t the only one to think so. The fabric against his knuckles contrasted with smooth, warm skin under his fingertips and Greg couldn’t help dropping his gaze. Mycroft’s skin was as pale as he’d imagined, freckles scattered like tiny shards of toffee across cream. His fingers disappeared into the darkness, shielded by Mycroft’s sleeve, and Greg felt a powerful surge in his groin.

He was inside Mycroft’s clothing. Inside it with Mycroft, sharing the space, feeling the heat of his skin pressed against Greg’s skin.

The realisation made him groan. The sound made him freeze, eyes flicking up to Mycroft’s.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, and his name had never been so broken, or so beautiful.

All his plans – slow, gentle, controlled – slipped sideways. Just enough to curl his fingers, nails scraping against Mycroft’s skin as his hand slipped free. Just enough to ease his body forward until he stood flush, eyes still locked on Mycroft’s, closer than they’d ever stood. Mycroft swallowed and Greg wondered if he regretted speaking. Pushing down the recklessness that had flooded him, Greg reached for control again. It was tenuous, but seeing Mycroft’s trust helped tighten his grip.

Fingers shaking, Greg reached up to his own throat. He fumbled at first, his buttons slipping between clumsy fingers until he felt skin brush his knuckles and he stilled.

Mycroft’s fingers slid along the back of his hands until it was his hands slipping Greg’s buttons free. When he reached Greg’s belt, both their breathing hitched. Greg was the first to reach for his shirttails, but stuttered when he realised Mycroft’s hands were also tugging at fabric. His eyes were wide, desperation clear as he tugged at his own shirt before realising he’d need to loosen his own neckline if he wanted to match Greg.

The sight of Mycroft scrabbling at his own clothing was astonishing and Greg stopped, his mouth falling open as Mycroft pulled his shirt and jumper off in one move, dropping the fabric on the floor. For someone so focused on his clothing, it was a remarkable move.

Greg couldn’t remember being so aroused in his life.

“Mycroft,” he breathed.

Belatedly he remembered what he’d been doing, copying Mycroft in dropping his shirt on the floor, though with far less elegance. They both paused, the acres of skin available now rendering them both speechless.

Greg wondered if Mycroft was as turned on as he was right now. He didn’t know where to look first; his fingers twitched before balling into fists, resisting the urge to smother Mycroft’s skin for his own pleasure. He raked his eyes over more of that pale skin, covering pecs and abs and the barest hint of ribs that tempted his fingers to trace their shape. Russet hair proved his red-head theory, spreading out towards pink nipples, puckering even in the warm air.

How did he appear to Mycroft? Much as his brain supplied sneering, derogatory words, Mycroft’s reaction told him otherwise.

Jesus, was he biting his lip? Greg, having raised his eyes self-consciously to check Mycroft’s reaction, was now staring openly, enthralled by both Mycroft’s reaction and his openness. The desperation held earlier was gone from the grey eyes now roaming over him, arousal clear in every slow, wide blink.

Plus, he was definitely biting his lip.

Greg swallowed back another groan. Watching someone turned on just from the few touches they’d shared, and now the sight of his shirtless chest, well, it was working for him. Again, his fingers shook; this time he moved slowly on purpose, giving Mycroft plenty of time to object before his hand landed against Mycroft’s ribs. Warm, soft with the shape of solid bone beneath, it was exactly as Greg had imagined. His thumb twitched, running over one of the curves before stilling as Mycroft pulled back.

“Ticklish,” Mycroft murmured, his hand pressing Greg’s more firmly into his flesh.

Greg’s heart heaved, Mycroft’s hand leaving a trail of fire up his arm as it curved across muscle and joint, the heat finally easing to a stop over his shoulder. They were joined now, close enough to sway together, should either take that first step. They might leave here this very moment, never having kissed any part of each other, and Greg would still count this as the most intimate experience of his life. His advances meeting with acceptance and even a furthering of their contact encouraged Greg, and he shifted, his other hand reaching to trace up Mycroft’s arm. He forced himself to go slowly, watching as Mycroft breathed through the sensation. The wild emotion of earlier had settled, and though fire still flared at their touch, it no longer raged. Greg knew it would tear through him, given the opportunity, but right now, the deepening understanding between them was keeping recklessness at bay.

It wasn’t clear who started, but slowly, two pairs of hands roamed. Greg’s eyes alternated between watching Mycroft, his reaction fascinating, and watching his hands. Seeing his skin against Mycroft was almost unbelievable, and he drank in the sight. Feeling Mycroft’s chest rise and fall in time with his own was hypnotic. Belatedly he realised their breathing, heavy and rough was echoing in his ears, another layer to the connection he already felt drawing around them.

Greg had no idea how long they stood for, but his torso was tingling with Mycroft’s touch when his fingers first strayed high enough to reach the hairs at the back of Mycroft’s head. Instinctively he scratched, and the dreamy expression on Mycroft’s face sharpened.

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes focussing on Greg.

Slowly, Greg did it again, pressing a little harder, feeling Mycroft’s fingers tighten on his shoulders. How were they still holding each other’s gaze? The trust between them was tight and gentle, holding them together. He swallowed. How could they not have even kissed yet?

The thought made him drop his gaze to Mycroft’s mouth. Until now, there had been distractions, more to discover, but right now nothing stood between them and suddenly, kissing Mycroft was all he wanted to do. Greg found his mouth dropping open as he leaned in, hesitating at the last second in case Mycroft didn’t want to.

He was met by Mycroft’s mouth before he should have been. It took him by surprise, but when his mouth made the shape of the, ‘oh!’, it simply pressed more closely, open and slick against Mycroft’s mouth. Greg thought it might have been too soon, but the way Mycroft clutched at him, sinking backwards and pulling Greg against him as he fell back against the door, well, that proved him wrong.

How could it have been too soon, after so much beforehand?

It was a good thing the door was there, Greg following Mycroft until they were pressed together along their length. Mouths glued together, Greg shifted a little, as did Mycroft, each small movement bringing their bodies more closely together. A knee eased between knees, thighs pressing tight; hips and stomachs and breath-taking hardness, unfamiliar yet deeply satisfying as they grew to know each other. Someone was making breathy little noises, and at least some of the moans were Greg’s. Something sharp was pressing into his shoulder blades, but he didn’t care. It might have been Mycroft’s fingernails, but the small points blurred together and honestly, Greg was concentrating far more on Mycroft, his lips and breathing, the feel of his body under hands, his chest warm against Greg’s.

“Gregory,” Mycroft gasped when Greg finally chased the temptation of Mycroft’s jawline, working along the skin, wondering how it could possibly be so intoxicating. Every new patch drew some kind of reaction from Mycroft and Greg never wanted to stop exploring, not if it meant the end of this. He knew it was greedy, but he couldn’t help it.

“Mycroft,” he breathed, mouth close enough for his breath to carry Mycroft’s name to his ear. The shudder was long and deep, rolling through Mycroft’s torso and through Greg. The sharp points on his back were definitely Mycroft; they slid lower, hard lines of pleasure-pain skipping down his spine, eliciting a shudder of their own.

_Jesus._

Greg gasped, pressing his forehead into Mycroft’s shoulder. Somehow that had tipped him far closer to overwhelming than anything else so far. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was the sound of his own name or the feel of Mycroft’s hands desperately scraping down his back. He’d lost control because of Greg, and it was both heady and frightening to think Mycroft was in so deep. Not that it was too different from Greg; he was trembling from the touch and they hadn’t even taken off all their clothes yet.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, and it was the start of something more. Greg held his breath as Mycroft’s hands smoothed over his back, soft and gentle swipes so different from the desperate presses of only a moment ago. “Would you…like to…”

“Yes,” Greg replied, pressing a kiss into Mycroft’s shoulder before standing up enough to look Mycroft in the eye. Their bodies were still pressed together from stomach to knees, thighs slotted together, but it wasn’t strange. He had no idea what Mycroft was proposing, but it was fine by him. “Yes, I would.”

“How do you know what I was suggesting?” Mycroft asked. His eyes were dark and wide, lips pink from their kisses. Greg wanted to kiss them again.

“Whatever you’re suggesting will be fine,” Greg told him. Mycroft’s disbelieving eyebrows rose, so Greg added, “I’m guessing it was some variation of, ‘come to bed with me?’”

Mycroft flushed but nodded. “How…” he murmured, not bothering to finish the question.

“It’s what I would have asked if I’d spoken first,” Greg murmured in return. He leaned up, kissing Mycroft deep and hard before easing back. “Which way?”

Mycroft pressed into Greg and for a moment Greg thought he was recklessly forgoing the idea of a bed. When his hands moved to gently push Greg back, he realised Mycroft was simply making room for himself to push off the door, eyes downcast. Their hands tangled and Greg followed him.

There was no denying it – this was Something.


End file.
